Process of Elimination
by HollyHop
Summary: When the dead body of a young sprayer is found in a skater park, Sherlock tries to solve the case, while John tries to solve the mystery of his feelings for his flatmate. When he accidentally witnesses Sherlock kissing someone else, John decides to eliminate his rival without Sherlock noticing anything. Johnlock. Rated M because the boys get their guns out of their holsters.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is not set at a certain point in time but could have happened anytime before or way after the Reichenbach Fall. You choose. Rated M for getting their guns out of their holsters.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters and I make no money out of all their gay.

**Process of Elimination**

"Sherlock." Mobile in hand I knocked on the bathroom door. "It's Lestrade. He needs your help. Do you wanna call him back, or …" I stopped and stared at the dull brass of the doorhandle. I had honestly no idea how to finish that sentence.

"Hang on." There was the sound of naked feet on tiles and Sherlock openend the door, before I could think any further.

"I'll talk to him now. Otherwise, I'd have to ring him back and that would be tedious." Sherlock snatched the phone out of my hand and pushed past me into the living room. I surreptitiously aligned myself with the wall of the small corridor, leading from the bathroom to the living room, holding my breath for an instant. It wasn't that I was afraid of Sherlock brushing against me in his haste, it was just a general precaution, because I knew how cranky he could get, if someone got in his way when he was being called out for a case. And the fact that Sherlock was only wearing boxershorts and an open dressing gown, with his curly hair still wet from the shower, definitely had nothing to do with it. I could feel my heart speeding up slightly. This had to stop. Now.

"John." Sherlock's voice drifted into the corridor from the living room. "We're wanted. Five minutes." And the door to Sherlock's bedroom slammed shut. I lifted my head up again, from where it had been resting against the wall behind me and opened eyes I had not realised were shut. I wouldn't give into this. That would be ridiculous. A few determined steps lead me back into our living room. I grabbed my coat from its hanger and slipped it on, wondering what case was awaiting us this time. After all, Lestrade never called for anything less than a seven.

As we sat in the cab, riding into downtown London, I could still smell the scent of Sherlock's freshly washed hair and therefore decided to stare out of the window a lot. Luckily, Sherlock didn't seem to be in the mood to talk, either. His gaze was fixed on his own gloved hand, clutching the handhold in front of him and he appeared to be in deep thought. From time to time he kept glancing at his phone, which he was holding in his other hand ever since we had left Baker Street. Suddenly it vibrated once, telling him that he'd received a text. His thumb punched the SMS up on the screen and after reading it, he visibly relaxed. Glancing over, I could see a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His hand slipped the phone into his coat pocket and he leaned back into the seat. My gaze returned to the traffic, pushing through London's city centre, like a piece of thread through the eye of a needle, wondering what had gotten Sherlock so upset in the first place and what message had then set his mind at ease. But I didn't dare ask.

Five minutes later, we arrived at the scene of the crime. Police cars were scattered around, as if a giant child had played with them and then abandoned its toys for something better to do. Police tape had been strung along the perimeters of a skater park. I could see half-pipes and small ramps, low railings running along the ground and walls covered in graffiti. In the middle of the flat concrete floor lay a body, covered in a white sheet. Sherlock made his way over to Lestrade, who had just spotted us and nodded a welcome.

"Some sprayer kid." Lestrade explained, more for my benefit than Sherlock's. "He was found about half an hour ago, by a couple of skaters. We've got them over there in the van, if you want to have a word."

"Yes. Later. May I?" Sherlock pointed at the body, lying outstretched about twenty feet away.

"'Course." Lestrade held up the tape and Sherlock and I dived under it. We made our way to the body and Sherlock lifted the white sheet all the way off, so that he could examine the dead man in front of him. Looking into the frozen face, I realised that it wasn't even a man at all, but a boy, hardly older than fifteen, judging from the soft skin on his face. His clothes were typical for the scene. Baggy trousers, an oversized shirt with some kind of Basketball or Football team logo printed on the front and a baseball cap lying next to him. No jacket or coat, although the weather was rather chilly still. I decided to make a mental note of that. Sherlock had over the years imprinted on me that what was not there, was just as important as what was there. I stood by, as my friend examined the body.

"He wasn't killed here." Sherlock stood up again after a few minutes of detailed analysis. "No blood to speak of and the shoes have abrasions at the heels, suggesting that he has been dragged along the ground for quite a bit." He looked up at me. "John, could you give him the quick once over, to make sure I haven't missed anything?"

Sherlock was leaning half towards and half away from me, before turning around to face Lestrade, something I had always found to be utterly enchanting. I tried to concentrate on the case at hand and examined the dead body as carefully as I could.

"Well, there's a rather ugly wound at the back of the head. Looks like his skull has been fractured. But I am not sure that's what he died of. The tongue has a bit of a bluish tinge to it, so he might have asphyxiated. No marks around the neck, so most likely not an externally induced trauma. Forms of self-induced asphyxiation can include choking on your own vomit, drugs, epilepsy and asthma. Did he carry an inhaler?" I looked up at Lestrade. The Detective Inspector shook his head.

"There was no inhaler amongst his stuff."

I nodded.

"Maybe that is exactly why he asphyxiated. He had forgotten to bring his inhaler." I shot a quick glance at Sherlock, who wore the most curious expression on his face for a split second, before he wiped it blank. It looked almost like … pride. I had seen this lopsided smile once before, when Mrs. Hudson had managed to sneak Irene Adler's phone out of Sherlock's second best dressing gown and successfully hid it away from the american hitmen. He had never given me a smile like that before, filled with quiet joy over my abilities to deduce, limited thought they might be, unless … unless he had never allowed me to see it until now. The rest of the examination was a bit of a blur, because I had a hard time focussing on the case at hand, while Sherlock's smile was still flitting around in my head.

XXX

After examinig the body, we were led from the crime scene to one of the police vans, where the skaters, who had discovered the corpse, sat waiting and smoking, until such a time when they would be released. Sherlock quizzed the two young men for a few minutes. All they had to say, was that they had arrived early for a bit of pre-school skating and the boy had been lying there. At first they had thought he was sleeping off alcohol or drugs, but when they had tried to wake him, they had realised that he was dead.

They had called the police and now would like to go back home, since they were hungry. And they wanted an attestation that they hadn't been able to come to school today, due to being police witnesses. Lestrade nodded to Sergeant Donovan to comply with their wishes and she sneered at his request behind his back.

Just as we were about to leave, I saw Sherlock looking at something in the distance. He excused himself quickly and left me standing near the van with Lestrade. We chatted quite amiably for a few minutes, while Sherlock had disappeared. Then Lestrade excused himself as well, got into his car and drove off. He had, after all, not just this one case to attend to. I stood, a bit lost, for another minute, until I decided to go in search of Sherlock. If he had taken off entirely, I could get myself a cab home, but if he was still lurking around somewhere nearby, searching for more clues, I could possibly help.

I trundled around the area, where I had seen Sherlock disappear, without any real hope of finding him, until I heard quiet voices nearby. I could make out Sherlock's low rumble, but although the other, higher, voice seemed to be familiar, I couldn't quite place it. I stopped to think. Should I just walk around the corner of the building that was obscuring Sherlock and whoever he was talking to, and not worry about disturbing an investigation, or should I go back? Had Sherlock already found a suspect or even another witness? I edged a bit closer to the corner, but couldn't make out what was being said. I had to try a different approach. Quickly, I made my way around to the other side of the building and hoped to catch a glimpse of whoever Sherlock was talking to, from there. Maybe it wasn't even a problem to interfere and I was being utterly silly.

From behind a large skip occupying part of the building site on the other side of the factory, I could see a young man leaning against the wall of the building quite casually, with Sherlock standing in front of him, chatting amiably. It looked as if Sherlock was describing something to the other man, who then laughed out loud. I could see a smile crossing Sherlock's face. Somehow the movement of the man in the baggy trousers seemed familiar. I had also seen this short crop of brown hair before. Then I remembered. It must be that sprayer. What was his name again? Raz. Yes, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Of course, Sherlock would try and get him to make inquiries in the scene about the dead boy. Raz would know. Or be able to find out. The whole thing struck me as utterly harmless, so I decided to go up to them and join the conversation, when Raz lifted one hand to Sherlock's face and ran a thumb down his cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I pressed myself back against the metal skip, I was hiding behind. What the hell was that about? I closed my eyes for a moment, not quite sure my brain was processing the information correctly. Did Raz just touch Sherlock's face? And more importantly – why? Maybe I had mistaken the gesture and was misjudging the entire scene. No other explanation seemed possible, knowing Sherlock as well as I did. Deciding to sneak another look around the corner of the skip, I carefully edged forwards again. It wouldn't do for them to see me, since now the logical assumption must be that I have been spying on them.

Raz wasn't leaning against the wall anymore. He had moved to stand in front of Sherlock, who was holding the younger man's hand away from his cheek, talking to him. The smile on both their faces had disappeared. Maybe Raz had touched Sherlock against his will? That little snot. Perhaps he had no idea that Sherlock didn't do emotions and thought he'd give it a go. But then I saw my friend letting go of the hand he was still holding and reaching up his own, to cup the cheek of the young graffiti artist, an intense look on his face. Raz grabbed the front of Sherlock's coat and they both leaned in at the same time. Knowing what was to come, I turned my back quickly.

My heart was pounding. This was impossible. Sherlock would never … It just didn't make sense. Or did it? The thoughts in my head were going Paris – Dakar and back again. Once you've ruled out the impossible … I closed my eyes and leant back against the cold metal of the skip. Looking at it rationally, it wasn't entirely impossible. Sherlock had known Raz a lot longer than me. They were both grown men and – well, I had never exactly suspected Sherlock of being straight. But to be honest, I hadn't actually thought him to be anything much. Mr. Married-to-my-work. Then it hit me. Of course, that was why Sherlock had been so tense in the cab. He had thought the dead sprayer might have been Raz. And the text he had received must have been from him.

I opened my eyes again. Maybe … maybe they hadn't actually kissed and I was getting the wrong end of the stick. I decided to sneak another look, just to make sure, I wasn't being misled by making premature assumptions. It was harder than I thought. I could hardly force my eyes to make their way across the building site and towards the run-down factory where my friend and Raz were standing. Finally bringing myself to focus on the two figures, there was no mistaking the scene. Raz' hands were buried in Sherlock's hair, their mouths devouring each other hungrily. Sherlock's hands were grabbing at the front of Raz' jacket and pushing him up against the wall, his hands now moving to cup his face and Raz squeezing the back of Sherlock's coat. Even to the most inexperienced eye, it didn't exactly look, as if this was their first kiss. Although I tried to tell myself that it might not mean anything, I had the sneaking suspicion that it was more of a "have-been-wanting-to-do-this-for-a-long-time" thing, than an "entirely-surprising-new-thought" kind of thing.

But why was I feeling so damn angry about it? Hot rage was surging through my body and then something else. Disappointment. I felt bereft, mad, offended and … utterly devastated. How could that little jerk just take something that was mine. Oh, but it wasn't mine, now, was it? Even if I had ever thought that Sherlock had never kissed before, it wasn't exactly for me to change that. I took a deep breath and decided to be honest with myself for once, even though I hated the idea. I tried to push away the fog in my brain that was clogging up what I truly wanted.

Did I want to kiss Sherlock? Well, the honest answer had to be 'yes'. Why? Because I couldn't stop thinking about him and … well, because one look into his eyes continually reduced me to a fish out of water, flapping about and gasping for air. Whatever my feelings for him were, they were intense. Alright, there, I said it, Sherlock does something in me, something I had only ever experienced with women before. That probably being the reason for why I hadn't allowed myself to think about it. And I had truly never been interested in men. But whenever Sherlock walks up to me, talks to me, focusses all his attention on me, looks at me … something happens. A fiery waterfall rushing through me, a pull that often led me to reciprocate his gaze, although I knew that he would consequently be able to read me like an open book. But Sherlock never noticed me staring in quite a mesmerised manner at him. Unless he just never mentioned it to me. Maybe these particular feelings weren't something Sherlock could read or understand. But then again, he'd been able to read them fine with Raz. It was no use. I had to think about this somewhere else. In private. And preferably with a lot more time on my hands.

I slowly made my way back to the skater park, taking immense care not to be seen by them, but after shooting another quick look over my shoulder, I realised that I could probably have danced naked with a wailing police siren strapped to my head and they wouldn't have noticed. I felt a sharp stab in my belly at this thought. Damn him. Which one of the two I wanted to be damned, I hadn't quite decided, yet.

When I arrived back at the crime scene, Anderson and his team were just packing up the last remaining bits of equipment. I didn't know whether I should just get a cab or whether it was better to wait for Sherlock to come back and then pretend everything was just dandy. If he got back here and I was gone, he might suspect. Then again, what if he didn't come back here because he took off with Raz, then I could end up standing here like a fool for hours. I sighed and was just turning to go, when I heard Anderson's voice behind me.

"He's got you properly whipped, hasn't he?" I could hear the malicious joy in his voice. Turning around, I just wanted to lash out at him, when I saw a movement out of the corner of my eyes. Sherlock was striding back towards us, with an air of nonchalance. His long coat billowing with every stride.

"Anderson. Why don't you pack up your toys and play somewhere else?" Sherlock's voice sounded equally vicious. I caught the quick glance Anderson shot me, telling me how Sherlock had to come and defend me, because I couldn't stand up for myself. I was only one breath away from exploding. To be safe, I turned my back on both of them and made my way down to the main road to get a cab, while Sherlock and Anderson exchanged another few unpleasantries.

XXX

On the way home, Sherlock was annoyingly cheerful. He chatted about the case and its intricacies, despite me hardly uttering a word. Sherlock had kissed that boy. I couldn't believe it. Why? Why had he done that? Was he in love with him? Were they a couple? But how could I not have noticed? And besides, Sherlock would have brought him round, wouldn't he? I realised that he probably wouldn't have.

Or was it just a spur of the moment thing? A quick snog just for fun? I somehow didn't think that Sherlock would let himself be distracted like that in the middle of an investigation. Then again, he had been very nervous about the identity of the victim, until he had received the text, telling him that Raz was safe. So they must have done this before. Was it just a kiss for old times' sake? To assure each other they were safe? Every which way my thoughts turned, I couldn't find a suitable answer. An answer that made any sense to me. I hardly noticed our arrival at Baker Street and entered our quarters in a daze. Sherlock had gone quiet, too.

"John?" His voice didn't quite make it into my brain.

"John, everything alright? He tried again. I hadn't even noticed that I was still at breaking point.

"I don't need you to defend me, alright? I can take care of myself." I lashed out at him.

"John … what?" Sherlock looked at me utterly perplexed, which was definitely a first since we'd known each other.

I slammed the door closed and hurried up the stairs to my bedroom. Well done on the keeping-it-cool thing, Dr. Watson. I flopped down on my bed. I still couldn't believe I felt so utterly jealous and betrayed. After all Sherlock and I weren't a couple. So why shouldn't he look elsewhere? I know I frequently did. Or at least I used to. Trying to recount the last date I had had, my mind had to retreat its steps nearly a year. That was when Sherlock had scared away my last attempt at a girlfriend, by asking her to squirt fake blood over her face and then lie down in the backyard underneath the window, for the reconstruction of a crime scene. So he had no reason to believe I was even interested in him. I scrunched up in a ball on my covers. The scene I had witnessed earlier, had shown me once and for all, that my feelings for Sherlock were neither platonic nor innocent. I now knew for sure, that I desperately wanted to do exactly what Raz had done. And more. One thing I could at least be fairly certain about, was that Sherlock had been back far too quickly for them to have engaged in anything but kissing. The thought sent another stab of jealousy through my guts. It was, as if I had eaten a nice meal of glass shards and razors.

Suddenly there was a knock at my door. I tried quickly to collect myself, before answering it. Sherlock never knocked at my door. That was far too personal for him. Usually he would just shout out my name from the living room and I would then make my way downstairs to inquire about what the flip he wanted now. I sat up on the edge of my bed.

"Yes. Come on in." I tried to make myself sound casual and overdid it slightly. The door opened and Sherlock's face peered around the corner.

"Everything alright? He sounded genuinely worried and so I smiled at him before answering.

"Yes, of course I'm alright. It's nothing. Well, you know Anderson."

Sherlock nodded and then entered the room fully. I tried to recall a time at which he had been in my room, but couldn't. He had never so much as set foot across the threshold. Unless he'd been in here, while I had been at work, snooping through my things. I shook my head at the thought. Yes, that was very likely. Sherlock had no regard for privacy. Using my laptop and reading my e-mails had proved that definitively.

"Anderson is still smarting from a case several years ago, when I managed to prove him wrong on several points. Ever since then he's been an utter prat and I'm not expecting that to change any time soon, so you're going to have to get used to it." Sherlock sat down on the bed next to me and I froze.

"What are you doing?" The words had left my mouth, before I could even think about what I was saying. Sherlock jumped up again, as if he'd been stung.

"I just wanted to say that I'm going out." He recovered quickly. "If you want to eat, you'll have to make yourself something." I snorted at this notion of his, but Sherlock was already almost down the stairs.

"I always have to make something myself." I shouted the last part at his receding steps. Urgh, I'm such an idiot. I lay back on the duvet, when I heard a door slam downstairs and Mrs. Hudson shouting at Sherlock to not make so much noise. Brilliant. That had been just the right thing to say, to make Sherlock spend the night elsewhere. Probably in a certain sprayer's flat. I curled up again and an hour later fell asleep, without even having taken off my shoes.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

When we arrived at the skater park, I got out as fast as I could, not wanting to spend another second trapped in that vehicle with Raz. I had felt his eyes on me questioningly quite a few times during our journey, but had deliberately not paid any heed. I didn't want to allow him to play any games with me. I would be the one to do that.

Where only yesterday we had crouched over the dead body of the young sprayer, there were now about a dozen other kids skating or lounging about smoking. Raz went up to one of the boys sitting on the edge of a halfpipe and together they strolled back towards us. I leaned in to Sherlock rather a bit closer than I would normally have done, when talking to him.

"Do you think he can be trusted?" I whispered, making sure Raz would be able to see my hand touching Sherlock's arm and my face leaning in just a little too close to be considered casual.

Sherlock held my gaze for just a moment too long and then nodded. This was going absolutely perfectly. I hadn't expected Sherlock to react so aptly, when I had put my hand on his arm, but he had unconsciously played right into my hands. I was still smiling, when Raz and the sprayer reached us. Raz shot me a quick look but didn't comment. The interview with the skater, introduced to us as Bozo, went quite well. Although he was loathe to talk to the police, he had some valuable information for us. He had seen the kid roughly around the time when he must have died. The boy had been walking along the road near the skater park, with two other boys. They were laughing and joking and therefore Bozo hadn't paid much attention. Everything seemed perfectly normal and since he had been just in the middle of smoking a joint at the time, hadn't been too keen to be noticed. So he had slunk further away from them, finding a quiet spot elsewhere. Even as he was walking away, there had been no sign of a fight or a struggle.

Sherlock made Bozo show him exactly where he had been sitting and where he had seen the boys. This made Raz and me stand at the edge of the skater park together, while waiting for them to finish.

"So," I started, not knowing exactly where I was going with this, "What else do you do, when you don't scribble your name on buildings?" Raz looked me up and down.

"I don't do tagging, I create art. My graffiti is a wake-up call for society, scratching their faces at every corner they turn. I don't just pee on every wall like a dog." His eyes were on mine and I could see that he knew. He knew I was utterly jealous of him and he knew that I was trying to get him to back off. I faltered and looked away. But I hadn't been a soldier for nothing. Carrying on in the face of danger or adversity had always been vital for me and so I decided not to let myself be intimidated by a smart-talking jumped-up little squirt.

"Look, I know it's not really my business, but don't play games with him alright. He's not used to handling emotions. You might both get hurt." My gaze was still tracing the ground and the halfpipes in the distance, following the skaters on their boards. Raz' eyes were still on me. I glanced at him and saw a smirk crossing his face.

"I thought it was exactly your business, what with you acting the way you do." Raz pushed his hands into his jacket. "Listen, man, I've known Sherlock since back when I was living on the street. He got me into care and he got me into school. I just finished my Bachelor at uni and I owe him big time. And yes, we had a bit of a thing a few years back, but that's over okay? So, don't get your knickers in a twist." Raz face went serious and his gaze panned across to where Bozo was showing Sherlock the exact spot, where he had seen the boys joking around. The two of them were just tiny specks in the distance, but my eyes could still see Sherlock's upright stance, his gloved hands hidden in his coat pockets, while he was listening intently to the boy's account of what had happened, but gazed into the distance. I knew he would pretend that none of the information was of any particular importance, so that the boy would want to tell him more, instead of closing up like an oyster. But inside he would store every bit of news in carefully labelled drawers for later use.

"I know how you feel, man." Raz clapped a hand on my shoulder, waking me from my reverie and then skipped down to one of the halfpipes to talk to a friend of his. I stood, immobile, for a few seconds. So, Sherlock and Raz had been together then. I had suspected as much, seeing them kiss the way they had, but at the time I hadn't even been able to imagine such a thing. But Raz had said it was over. Had it been a kiss for old times' sake or a rekindling? On the whole, it didn't seem as if Raz was still interested. But was Sherlock?

I didn't have any more time to think about it, because the two small figures were growing larger, as they made their way back towards us. Sherlock nodded at me, when they arrived back at the skater park. He had obtained the information he'd wanted. I turned to go, when Raz skipped up the steps to the edge of the skating rink, where we were standing.

"Got everything?" His eyes were alight and on Sherlock, who smiled benignly back at him.

"And more." Sherlock's voice was low and playful. I could feel my teeth grinding against each other. He shook Raz' hand and wished him good luck with his future projects. Then he turned to me and I tried to smile rather cheerfully. It must have been painful to look at.

"Shall we?" Sherlock turned to go, knowing for sure that I would follow.

I nodded defeatedly and we went off in search of a cab that would take us back to Baker Street. Or so I thought. Instead, Sherlock instructed the cab driver to take us to the Yard, where he would no doubt present Lestrade with the solution of the case.

In the end this meant that the two skaters, who had 'found' the body, would be spending a lot more time away from school in the future. Lestrade called them in for questioning again, but in the end it turned out to be less questioning than storytelling by Sherlock. The sprayer had, apparently, been taking a bit too much of his own medicine. Molly had found traces of chemicals in his lungs that could only have gotten there, by sniffing spray paint out of a plastic bag. This idiotic and dangerous experiment had most likely led to a certain state of hallucination. And in this state, the two other boys had found him wandering the streets. The three had started to joke around and the sprayer had wanted to have a go on one of the skateboards, which promptly led to him falling off and bashing his head in on the concrete. At the sight of the blood, the two boys had started to panic and had tried to drag the apparently dead boy away from the street and some place dark. Unfortunately, while one of them had taken the boy by the arms to drag, the other had simply grabbed his scarf and pulled him along. This had ultimately led to the asphyxiation of which the boy had then died. They had then gotten rid of scarf and bloody jacket and since it was starting to get light, pretended to have just found the body when they had called the police.

Well, ultimately they probably would get away with a suspended sentence or a caution, because the death had been accidental and they had, after all, notified the police, but I still had to shake my head at some of the idiotic things young people got themselves into sometimes. I then tried to remember my own youth and realised that I had had a few narrow scrapes as well.

I had never been one for sitting at home, just because it was safer and I guessed neither had Sherlock. I tried to imagine my friend as a young boy of fifteen, already solving his first mysteries at school, being hated by everyone around him because of his cleverness and the way he had of treating people who weren't his equals. I looked over at him, while Lestrade read the boys their rights and again his eyes were on me. I quickly averted my gaze, trying to seem intent on the recording of the statements, but I suppose Sherlock must have seen. He doesn't usually miss a vital clue like that. And we had shared moments of intensity before, when he had talked to me through his gaze. But this time it was different. I was scared of him looking at me. It scared me utterly, for I didn't know what he was going to see in my eyes. I had not yet found a word for it myself.

I was so intent on pretending to concentrate on Lestrade taking the statements, that I didn't notice Sherlock come up to me. It wasn't until he touched my arm lightly that I realised he was standing right next to me. I looked up surprised and Sherlock nodded a 'let's go' at the door. Then he turned without another word and strode out of the room. I followed suit and we made our way downstairs and into the next available cab. None of us spoke a word. Sherlock seemed to be in deep thought and I was frankly too confused and scared of my own feelings, to start any kind of conversation.

Back at 221B, I threw my coat over the back of a chair, not bothering to hang it up on the coat rack. I had no idea, what the hell Sherlock was thinking right now and I had no idea of what I was going to do with my newfound knowledge that Sherlock was indeed capable of feeling, kissing and possibly even more. I hadn't dared to ask Raz about any other activities they might have engaged in during their 'thing', whatever that was. Plus, I knew nothing of what possible feelings Sherlock might have for me. After almost half a minute of just staring at my coat, I decided a cup of tea usually helped with everything and I was simply going to make one. I turned to ask Sherlock whether he wanted one, too. He still stood by the closed door, where he had hung his coat upon entering our living room.

Our eyes snapped onto each other like magnets. Within two strides Sherlock was upon me. His hands grabbed my face on either side, turning it up, his head bent down slightly to bring his eyes on a level with mine. I couldn't stop my hands from grabbing the lapel of his suit, either to pull him closer or to push him away, I didn't quite know yet. All I knew was that my stomach had contracted to the size of a walnut and my blood was rushing audibly through my veins. We stood locked like this for a moment, our breaths coming in sharp gasps and colliding in midair in front of our mouths, which somehow seemed a lot closer now than only moment ago. Finally Sherlock leaned in fully to capture my lips with his and I decided to use my grip on his lapel to pull him closer, rather than to push him away.

Upon contact, our lips parted almost intstantly, letting our tongues slide against each other. I had never kissed a man before and was surprised how little it actually differed from kissing a woman. Sherlock's lips were soft and firm on mine and the feeling it produced was indistinguishable from my previous experiences. If anything, it was even more intense. Maybe I had been too worried about this whole thing. After all, kissing someone you're in love with, will ultimately bring about the same reactions.

I lost this train of thought quite quickly, though, when Sherlock pushed me backwards against the chair I had flung my coat on and his kisses became more fervent. His hands were not cupping my face anymore, but running themselves down my back. I could feel his fingers exploring my shoulderblades, my lower back, my hips, venturing underneath my jumper. His hands were now only a shirt away from making contact with my bare skin and I could hardly think straight.

But suddenly the hands stopped. Sherlock broke the kiss and I opened my eyes in confusion. His hands were holding my jumper at the waist and his fierce gaze was asking me, if I was okay with him taking it off. I gave a quick nod and Sherlock pulled my jumper over my head in one fell swoop, dishevelling my hair slightly. I pushed my hands undeneath the shoulderpads of his suit and pushed the jacket down over his slim shoulders, revealing the shirt underneath in full. I started on the buttons, but Sherlock's mouth was back on mine and I couldn't concentrate enough for such a difficult task. When Sherlock finally ran his hands underneath my shirt, I felt my hips jerking forwards out of their own accord, pressing themselves closer to the body in front of me. His arms were wrapped tightly around my back and held me firmly in place.

When Sherlock's kisses started to wander from the lips across my face to my neck, my ear, my jaw and into my hair, my desire for him cranked up another notch. I started working on those buttons again and reckoned I had opened enough for Sherlock to slip the shirt over his head. To make him get the idea, I pulled off mine and he followed suit. Now his hands were on my naked back and his mouth back on mine. If I had ever thought that it would be weird kissing a man or that I would not be aroused by it, I was wrong. Sherlock's bare skin against mine almost made me whimper. His hands were on my butt now, pressing me closer to his crotch and I had to break the kiss.

What the hell were we doing? I had just taken off my shirt and this usually meant, that I was probably going to take off my trousers as well in the course of the near future. And if I took off my trousers, I would be almost naked in front of another man, who had so far been my friend and my flatmate. And who would most likely be in a similar state of undress. I must have worn an expression of utter horror on my face, because Sherlock froze in his movements.

"John," he waited for his voice to reach my brain, "listen, John, we can at any time, any time at all, put our shirts back on and stop. We're not on an irreversible slide." His eyes were on me reassuringly. Oh, great, now Mr. Inexperienced was giving me advice on sex. But then again, he probably wasn't quite as inexperienced as we'd all thought. Plus, my experience of engaging in sexual activities with another man, consisted entirely of the last five minutes.

"Shut up." I grabbed his wrist and almost made him stumble, as I pulled him towards his bedroom.

We fell onto the bed in a heap of limbs and I started undoing Sherlock's belt, while he pushed his shoes off with his feet, one after the other. Within thirty seconds we were both naked but for our pants. I could not believe how much I wanted this. My hands were on Sherlock's shoulders, pushing him down against the sheets, while I sat atop his waist. With a growl he turned us around and was now covering me with his entire body. I loved to feel his weight on me. My already erratic breathing was made even more difficult by this and by his eyes burning into mine.

Then he slipped one hand between our bodies and rubbed it along the fabric that now just barely covered my erection. My head pushed back into the pillow and I involuntarily let out a moan. His head came down to kiss my chest, his lips trailing kisses all the way down to my waist, while his hands pulled my pants off and over my knees and down, dropping them on the floor at the foot of the bed. My eyes travelled down along my body and met Sherlock's mischievous grin, those catlike eyes and raised eyebrows, topped by his dark curly hair. Then he suddenly sraightened up, put on a very serious face and looked down at me in a very businesslike manner. I almost felt, as if I was one of the dead bodies he usually examined. His voice was clear and strong and never had seduction sounded so much like a post mortem.

"John Hamish Watson. I'm going to have you." And so he did. Always and forever.


End file.
